Blurring The Line
by Mx4
Summary: Yep, it's another "McGee hurt" fic. Though, hopefully this one is a bit different than what everyone's expecting. Will be more collected one shots than flowing story. Do hope people enjoy it though. Let me know either way eh?
1. Beginning

A/N: Nothing claimed, nothing owned. Let's get this out of the way right here and now: I'm not a hardcore NCIS fan (pretty casual truth be told), so I ask all true fans for forgiveness if I completely screw up or around with canon here. I've discovered the NCIS fandom recently and also found I happen to derive an inordinate amount of enjoyment from the formula McGee+Angst/Whump =Story. Reviews would be nice, but are not expected. Hope you enjoy! Oh, and BTW for those of you wondering, yes there is a reason that a familiar name appears in this first shot. Why? **It's a secret...**

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1. _He doesn't remember what has come before. All he knows is that he is wandering in a line or in circles, unable to tell the difference anymore, not paying attention to where he's drifting, clothing streaked with blood both his own and not, cloth and skin torn by animals and by wear and tear, mind blank but eyes wide and staring as he ignores the burning pain in his feet trying to get far far away from something he doesn't even want to know. As he stumbles down the path, legs growing weak, he hears a noise in the nearby trees. Instinctively he hides behind the nearby pine, small body trembling as the fight or flight instincts take over. He knows just by his very nature that he won't be able to fight for long. But damned if he isn't going to make them regret trying to take him. The masculine calls for the feminine one to be quiet, that he heard something. The boy instinctively lowers his body's movement, barely breathing, eyes stretched to their capacity ears quaking for the slightest twig breaks that he hears cautiously approaching his hiding spot. It's not use trying to hide he knows but he has to try every fiber of his body screams for him to go down fighting and to not go down at all. As the man cautiously turns his head around the corner the boy jumps and_-

John McGregor sat up with a jolt in his bed, cold sweat freely leaving all the possible pores on his body. He wiped his forehead slowly, closing his eyes and trying to mentally banish the images he'd just seen. But just like every other time they come back, there's absolutely nothing he can do to stem their inevitable tide crashing on the shore of his mind. He knew the drill by now. He'd see the images, he'd experience them first-hand as though he were seven years old once again, and he'd relive these memories until they retreated to his subconscious once again. Until the next time they'd come back again. Quietly and privately, he sighed before lying back in his bed, letting them wash over his prone form as his tears flowed silently down his slightly rounded cheeks. It was the end of his life as he knew it, but the beginning of the one he now knew as Timothy McGee. He still didn't know what to think of it. He doubted he ever would.


	2. Course Change

A/N: Nothing claimed, nothing owned. Holy freakin' crap, as Seth McFarlane would say. I'm gonna be honest with ya'll right here and now; I didn't even expect a single review, let alone three within the first day of this thing being posted. That's without even mentioning the alerts and favorites lists it's been put on. It's flattering to say the least. Here's crossing my fingers and hoping the quality doesn't go downhill quite yet!

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2. Growing up, Tim wasn't originally a very, as Tony conjectured on multiple occasions, nerdy child. He was originally a scared, easy to lose track of and prone to hiding boy. It took until his sister Sarah was five that he stopped sleeping under his bed in an effort to hide from the one who'd slaughtered his loved ones before his eyes. He never allowed his adopted family to let him see a psychiatrist of any kind, afraid as he was of those who would try to delve into his mind for any kind of reason. It had been what…**he** had done. Encouraging him to run, to leave them to die. And like the coward he was, John had done it. Run until he could only walk, walk until his feet were barely holding together, pure survival instinct driving him to get away from those horribly void brown eyes that seemed to consume all in their path, small black holes that took in everything and gave absolutely nothing in return.

For some time when he was skipped ahead to middle school after discovering how advanced he was, Tim had been somewhat antagonistic toward anyone who tried to get close to him, only marginally opening up to his baby sister and his adopted parents who still mistakenly called him Timothy. The true reason for the newly minted McGee wishing to join law enforcement could be traced back a technical demonstration for career day at his school before he was to graduate and move onto high school. He'd wandered by the law enforcement booth and found that a screen was capturing him moving down the aisle that was formed between the booths. He moved back and forth in his spot, trying to escape it, only to have the infernal thing follow his movements. He immediately moved toward the booth, a purpose lighting a figurative fire under his skin. He inquires; he displays an interest the last minute cyber-crimes detective has never seen in a child that age. He's grateful for the attention, but frankly unnerved by it. As he got to high school, he would become obsessed with computers and technology, voraciously devouring any kind of information he could about it with only a single concept in mind: vengeance. He'd test himself by hacking into the system and changing grades for the right price. When he was satisfied with his progress, he stopped selling his services. If it hadn't been for his father's heritage, it might've spelled the end for him. But, that's a story for another time...


	3. Heritage

A/N: Nothing claimed, nothing owned. Same warning as the first chapter applies: Casual fan writing an alternative interpretation of their favorite character. Don't like it? Then you're reading the wrong kind of fiction to begin with and I don't get why in the hell you're here. Again, reviews are appreciated but not required. Fingers crossed that this third installment isn't the Spider-Man 3 of the series!

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3. When McGee tries to get out of the hacking business, he discovers that trying to do so only pulls him in further. The local hoods don't want to give up on their remarkable string of passing grades. They implore McGee, offering everything from low level drugs, to connections to the local syndicates. Some of the connections McGee takes, but he never touches the drugs. It comes to a head one day, one of the local gangs doesn't like that he isn't exclusive. They bring him down into their chop shop to, in a truly clichéd way, make him an offer he can't refuse. He tries to be polite, but then they make a mistake. They threaten his sister's life. After everything else, after being forced to watch his blood sister die in his mother's arms with the tears still drying on her infant face, after knowing he could've saved his best friend on that damnable day, the sixteen year old snaps. Adrenaline begins pumping through his red veins, throbbing in his ears like drums of war. A high pitched ringing is all he can hear, barely aware of what's going to happen now. As one of his classmates approaches him to see if he's decided to accept the boss man's offer, it begins.

His right hand comes up to shove the appendage away quickly, left following up with a palm to the nose that drives it directly into the brain. The one on his left draws a pistol, screaming incoherent nonsense. His full instinct comes into play now, blood roaring for death, for the ones who would threaten his sister's life. He goes just outside the pistol as a shot is fired wildly right next to his still ringing ear. His right hand overlays his attacker's effectively taking control of the firearm as his left arm encircles the neck. He quickly fires two shots, eyes narrowed in on the two who don't get a chance to react before a bullet enters their bodies at the heart and the eye respectively. Then he puts the gun to the temple in front of him and fires one more time. The blood splatters over part of his face and left shoulder, but he doesn't pay attention to that, not when he has so much still to do. The boss, unable to believe this scrawny kid not even shaving yet has just killed all of these young boys so ruthlessly, backs away slowly, eyes glued to the angry, red-faced, heavily breathing incarnation of anger in front of him. McGee steps slowly towards the man who tried to intimidate him. His mind recalls his father's stories as he comes closer_. _

_Remember Johnny boy,_

He moves closer.

_we're all a lesson in history, a relic of times of hardship._

He snarls at the elder who has tripped over a prone toolbox, eyes still transfixed on his formerly meek visage.

_We are a living reminder of the rage and anger and sorrow of Ireland, a remnant of the Viking raids that were so_ _destructive to our ancestors._

He leaps at his former employer, howl of rage erupting from his lips_. _

_Whenever you don't think you can handle something, just remember where you come from. We McGregors are a hardy clan, and it takes a lot more than a few bad days to keep us down._

He slams the gray haired man's head into the hard cement once twice three times, willing him to lay still, willing it all to be over. When Tim's primary personality reasserts itself, he finds himself horrified at what he's done. Panicking, he quickly withdraws a lighter from his former classmate's pocket. He sticks a rag in the gas cans, lights the edge and hightails it out as quickly as he can. Shaking and paranoid, he quickly tosses the shirt and pants he was wearing into the flames, getting out as quickly as he can. He changes into his gym clothes he keeps and the car and shakily starts driving. He's halfway home before he hears sirens, going straight toward the direction he just left. In a panic, he pushes the accelerator too soon, and collides with a bus that had just started moving forward. When he wakes up in the hospital, he nervously tells his parents how he lost control of his car trying to work the windshield wipers, hoping to god or whatever deity hears him that he'll be able to pull off the lie. They believe him. After all, he may be anti-social, but one thing they know: their adopted son to be is honest.


	4. Identity

A/N: Nothing claimed, nothing owned. Wow, you guys really do like this thing I guess. Ten alerts, four favorites, five reviews (my thanks to starjems88 for reviewing every chapter thus far) and now it appears I have someone who has favorited me as an author. Didn't expect it, but it's extremely flattering and welcome all the same. Once again, reviews would be nice, but are not required.

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4. If there is one true thing that can be said for the man everyone knows as Timothy McGee, it's that there hasn't been a day go by that he hasn't lied to someone. Mostly it was his adopted family, (though his secondary one at NCIS is a close second in the running mental tally he keep) because every single day that they call him someone else's name is another black mark on his record, another lie by omission that weighs on his already tired and jaded soul. John sometimes wonders why he still won't tell his name to anyone (he stubbornly refuses to call Jack and Martha his parents within the confines of his own mind) his real name.

After all, he knows perfectly well what name he was christened with. He knows intellectually it can't hurt to tell them his name isn't Timothy. But emotionally it is a whole different kettle of fish. He still remembers the day they found him, half crazed with grief, attempting to fight a man more than three times his small size in order to not get killed after having just escaped the blood soaked cabin his family was rotting away in. He remembers his future guardian Jack restraining him while his wife Martha called in emergency services. The paramedics gave him a shot to try to calm him down, he knows this much, but doesn't remember feeling a needle prick him. Maybe it was just the exhaustion from being so wound up and simultaneously so worn out from everything he'd witnessed. They'd taken him to the hospital where he'd drifted in and out of consciousness. Sometimes he'd have dreamless sleep, sometimes he'd have nightmares, and sometimes he'd have hallucinations. By the end of what he would later be told was the three month mark he couldn't even tell the difference between them all.

He'd refused to speak even when coming out of his trauma induced sleeping, pointedly staring at the wall directly across from his bed or down at his hands, still able to see the blood that he'd stained them with by leaving them all behind in order to live. He remembers his best friend, her eyes pleading with him, bright and alive with terror and with pain. No matter who tries to speak to him, he doesn't respond for fear. Fear of what, he doesn't know, but fear it surely is, clenched in his gut like an iron ball, dragging him down into an abyss with each breath of borrowed air he takes. He remembers attending a funeral with his friend what seems a lifetime ago, but what was in fact merely last year. It was such a strange thing, her little brother leaving the world so soon after entering it. He remembers the somber faces; he remembers the mournful tranquility and sense of hopeful resignation that permeated the air in the church, even if he didn't understand why. He couldn't give them his name, not yet.

Perhaps when it was less painful, less of a bleeding wound, spewing his lifeblood forth with every beat of his heart, he would tell them. But until then, he just couldn't face it. Not now, not like this. So the next time they come in hoping to speak with him, he says something. He speaks the rasped word: "Water." The staff rush to get him some of the soothing cool liquid, he gulps it down greedily, idly deciding that he has never tasted anything so delicious. They ask him what he remembers before waking up here. He speaks only one more word. A name. "Tim." He answers quietly, the first lie now spoken. Someday he vows as the McGees enter to visit him. Someday he'll tell them. But it is not this day. Not yet.


	5. Connection

A/N: Nothing claimed, nothing owned. Not sure how realistic these things are in regard to locations, possibilities, etc. Suppose I shouldn't really worry too much eh? Yeah, that's the ticket. Find what I can, don't worry about the rest too much. Hope this one meets expectations.

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5. When Tim was first away at college, he found that he isolated himself quite easily, even if he had to share a room with up to three other people. He'd retreat into his work, into his classes, into discussions with his professors, anything really to remain apart from them. He felt safe discussing and talking with the professors at both MIT and Johns Hopkins, knowing they wouldn't be getting close to him. They'd know his thought processes, but they'd never try to get close to him, just as he would never try to get close to them. This is why he manages to go through all those years with no mentor, barely seeing an academic adviser and yet still managing to get a double masters at two prestigious institutions.

But still, even one so solitary as he had to have company. If only in order to keep his mind steady for another week, month or year. He wouldn't dare approach any of the people on the campuses. He was sure they'd never want anything to do with him; there were so many more choices out there for these kids he knows. So he wanders into town, and he looks up one of his contacts from the old days. He asks for a favor. The contact asks for one in return. They both get what they desire.

Tim doesn't live alone in his off-campus apartment anymore. Now, though he has never truly tried to go out with a girl before, he lives with one in his apartment. He talks, he interacts with her, and she is cordial with him at the beginning. Soon however, they begin to warm up to each other. Nearing the end of his sophomore year, he weakens a bit, wants to try for a relationship with one of the girls in his inorganic chemistry class. He asks her for help and practice in wooing or pleasing a woman. She balks initially, not quite sure what exactly he's trying to pull, first thought that he wants to try and woo her. He reassures her that that won't happen, that he's not going to try anything on her. That he just wants to understand women. She relents, seeing as how he's covered her before in the past.

He takes her out on three dates; one dinner, one movie and one dance. She lectures and teaches him the entire time, and like the good student he's proven himself to be, he memorizes and he follows her instructions. She is starting to warm up to him, starting to think that maybe he could be more than a convenient place to stay. She asks if he wants to learn more about how to be with a woman. He isn't sure, doesn't want to make her feel obligated to treat him differently than she would any other guy she goes out with. His simple explanation almost makes her laugh and cry simultaneously. In that instance, she realizes why she was attracted to him. He treats her as a woman. He doesn't feel some ridiculous need to "save" her from her situation as some romantic clients seem to get. He doesn't treat her as though she owes him for protecting her as other men she has known would've. Despite knowing what she does, what she is, he still believes her to be out of his league. Not because she's too expensive, but he considers her too good of a person to be with like that. He recognizes her as human. No more, no less. She gently takes his soft hand in her slightly calloused one, squeezes it to get him to look her in the eyes. She smiles in a way she hasn't for quite some time, before she reassures him. He accepts, willing to learn anything she can teach him.

He doesn't last long the first time around. But of course, most virgins don't. She is patient with him, and he tries and tries again. It is a long night for both of them. But well worth it even if he does miss one of his classes the next morning. But once the year ends for him, she gets the call. She's being moved to a more lucrative part of the country. Another up and comer is going to take her place in his apartment. This upsets her more than she'd like to admit. He watches her hang up the phone out of the corner of his eye, hunched over his desk to make sure all is in order for next year. As she moves to the couch to sit down, her face is carefully arranged once again. He joins her not a few moments later, casually placing his arm around her shoulders, providing non-verbal comfort as any good friend would. Nothing is said over the next week as she packs her meager belongings and gets ready for her reassignment. He sees her off at the airport, promising that he'll make sure the rest of her things get there when she does. They give each other a brief hug; she closes her eyes, he looks down at her shoulder. "Goodbye Cara." He says. "Goodbye David." She murmurs as she walks away. He doesn't correct her. She doesn't look back.

The next girl is different. Afraid and prone to fits of sadness or anger. He patiently rides them out while he lives with her. When she wants to talk, he listens even when he seems preoccupied. When she's mad, he quietly provokes her so that she can scream and shout and curse the heavens. He always makes sure to make up with her before they go to sleep however. It's something he remembers his mother doing for him when he was young; he figures he can at least extend the same courtesy for her, childish thing that she seems to be. When she feels lonely or hot in the night and needs someone to warm her bed or her body, he is there for her without complaint or spoken word. He does what he would've for her predecessor without question. No more, no less. He never grows as close to her as he did to the one before her, but he looks out for her. And soon, it is time for Tim to head out, head to his next school, to try and get his second mastery. He must and he will. He feels a strong sense of déjà vu standing with the airport at his back as they bid each other good-bye, giving each other a hug that is the same and yet different from the one that came before it. He gives her a small smile before quietly saying: "Goodbye Adelpha." She says nothing in return; eyes carefully blank now, recognition of his affectionate title reduced to a slight shine in her eyes. He turns to walk away, never seeing her mouth: "Goodbye Warren." He doesn't look back.

The big bosses heard about his move, and had arranged a similar situation for him when he came up there. He never met the one who was living with him until nearly half a year had gone by. He never got to know her, away as she often was. When she left halfway through his junior year, it didn't even truly register until three months into his senior year. When he graduates, he feels a sense of accomplishment that he managed to get through it without being close to anyone. _No,_ a traitorous whisper speaks in his ear. _not entirely._ He knows who it speaks of. He refuses to acknowledge it, ignoring the slight empty feeling that there should be five waiting for him instead of the three there are. John doesn't regret the things he's done to keep himself distant from others. And yet still…he can't help but feel a sense of disappointment with himself. But he'd kept his distance. He'd kept himself focused on the goal. Just as they had, just as he knew he would have to. And that was all that counted in the end. He hoped.


	6. Doomed Repetition

A/N: Nothing claimed, nothing owned. It's kinda interesting to me actually: I've managed to provoke at least one reaction for each chapter except for number 4. It's not too surprising, since even looking back on it, I'm not sure how clear it really was. But basically, it goes like this: the soon to be McGee didn't want to tell anyone what his real name was, since doing so would essentially be an acknowledgment of what had just happened, something he didn't feel even close to ready to face. So instead of telling them his real name, he gave the name of his best friend's recently dead little brother: Timothy. Basically, John is using a dead person's name as his own now. Not sure if that really came across too well, but hey. Can't win 'em all I suppose.

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6. John had never much been a fan of music after his mother's death. He remembered how she used to sing to him and his brother, lulling them into a deep sleep with only her voice and a lullaby to enthrall them. He briefly picked up a guitar for credit in an arts requirement during his stay in high school and in college. He had absently played wordless bits for the two women who had stayed with him in the apartment. They seemed to mildly enjoy them. But he had managed to push it to the back of his mind until he met Abigail Sciuto in that poetry café down nearby Washington.

It had been an out of the way place, not one he'd normally go to on his off day, but he was glad he had. He had hit it off with her, despite some initial…misgivings about her appearance. He did something that would never have occurred to him any other day, but he decided he'd be bold and ask this strange girl to meet him for lunch. She accepted, and they'd had a relationship of sorts. As he got to know her however, he started to discover something about her; despite her mercurial way of flitting about everywhere as though she were a black and white hummingbird, despite her double infatuation with forensic science and the occult, despite how out of this world and seemingly streetwise she appeared to be, she was something that he could never be. Innocent.

She bowled with nuns, still helped her family out, still believed, despite everything that working in death and deception would say to her, that people were inherently good and were still decent at their very core. She believed in the best of people, pure and simple. His being any closer or more intimate with her would taint her. It wouldn't be the same as it had been with Cara and Adelpha; they'd already traversed and seen what the world could be. One had seen the depths people would go to find pleasure, the other the heights they would scale to draw blood. They were still good, but they didn't have a…shine that seemed to permeate them. They were like him; worn and tired. Ragged from rough hands dealt by fate, god, chance, whatever it was called these days. If Abby grew to know him, she would never be able to be what she was again. He wouldn't do that to one such as her. She deserved better than that.

He began quietly distancing himself from her, body language and interactions with her becoming more and more distant as the days went by. She was a quick study, and obliged his silent cues by breaking it off with him. They agreed to remain friends, not because he truly felt they should, but because, in a way, he was addicted to that innocence she seemed to radiate, like his first baby sister had when she'd come into his family's life. No matter how much he didn't want to and how much he hated himself for it, he couldn't bring himself to cut away from her completely. It burned deep in his heart and simultaneously filled him with joy to talk to her, to banter with her like this. It gave him hope that perhaps he himself could find some measure of peace in this life.

As absurd as it might sound, Tim hadn't transferred to the Washington office of NCIS branch in order to be closer to Abby (though that was certainly a consideration). No, he had originally done it in order to keep a better eye on some of the more suspicious activities he believed might lead him to the brown-eyed man. Though that became harder once he started working with the team run by agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs. It wasn't so much that Gibbs was a difficult man to work with; Tim was used to interacting with former Navy men via his adopted guardians. It was the distance and seeming coldness in his eyes that made it hard for him. He couldn't look in those eyes for very long without the scared seven year old John that was still very alive within him wanting to get away from the brown-eyed man's reincarnation. As Tim McGee, he could respect and find admiration for the no-nonsense, win-at-any-cost mentality that he embodied. But as John McGregor, he could barely stand to be in the same room as him, his very presence far too much like the brown-eyed man for him to ever want to get closer to him.

As he grew to know the rest of the team, he would develop slightly complicated love-hate relationships with all except one. He felt equal parts love and hate for Anthony DiNozzo, the senior field agent above him. Love for trying to set a good example in the field of how an agent needs to observe and act. Hate for reminding him with every teasing comment, every thrown paper ball, every joke about his personal life, that his real brother was dead. Gone and never coming back. Hatred for himself, for letting DiNozzo try to take that role from Tommy, who had never been given the chance to even defend himself, shot in between his eyes before he could react to their father's death.

He couldn't stand to be reprimanded by the Director when she was still alive, her kind demeanor often needing to be shed in order to be strict with her wayward charges reminding him of his mother, who in her dying moments had tried to protect his baby sister Amy, only to have the bullets pass through both of their bodies while he stood in the door to his room petrified and ready to soil himself.

When Caitlin Todd had been on the team, he'd had hope for a friendship with her. Not out of any sense of attraction to her, but in the hopes that perhaps he would be able to find some kind of kinship with someone who didn't so painfully remind him of the family he'd already lost. Perhaps with her, he told himself, he'd be able to find a place in his heart for her as she was, not merely as a replacement for others, somewhat like he had for Cara and Adelpha. But that had ended with her murder on the rooftop. And soon afterward, Ziva David had entered in her place. He respected her and treated her as he would've the only other assassin he'd known from the beginning. He would see the walls she'd built up inside herself, the way that she'd keep herself separate from the others as best she could. But as time went on and he grew to know her, she started to follow the path of the others in NCIS that he'd tried so hard, and failed, to keep out of his heart. She grew to replace his best friend, the one he'd stupidly convinced to come with his family up to their cabin. A way to get close to nature he'd told her, a way to get close to Tommy he knew she'd think of it as. And so history continued to repeat itself in front of his very eyes. She was attracted to the more streetwise, older brother rather than the background friend that started to realize there was something special about her. He knew with Ziva, as he had with Lisa, that she had eyes only for Tommy. Even if he'd contemplated perhaps trying for something, even if he'd wanted more out of such a friendship, he realized it would never be reciprocated; not in the way he knew he would eventually want it to.

Ducky he loved to listen to, his stories always providing interesting insight into the man behind the science and his colorful history. He hated how much he was reminded of his father however, the same smile, the same kind of gentle but methodical approach to nearly everything in his life before he'd been taken by one he had trusted with that same life. His feelings for Ducky had led, in part, to his quietly seething feelings of dislike and contempt for Jimmy Palmer. It would take a single drunken night for the true reasoning to come out from behind the veiled and shadowed walls he'd built up to protect himself from his own psyche before he'd admit it to Palmer himself. Soon after, the lonely M.E.'s assistant would become the first person in more than two decades to learn his real name. Instead of going to anyone with this, he continued to keep John's secrets, talk with him, and become his sole confidante. Another drunken night out would reveal why to both of them, even if John himself wouldn't remember it in the morning.

_They'd been sitting quietly on his couch, the one in an apartment that he couldn't even live in as himself, and he'd be sipping his beer quietly while Jimmy did the same beside him. "Why are we friends?" the clumsy but kindly assistant had asked the man who not over a year before, had published a book insinuating that he had sex with corpses. John took a minute to think it over, before he whispered; "You're me." The coroner in training would look at him sharply out of the corner of his eye, waiting patiently for his newly made friend to elaborate. He didn't disappoint as he whispered; "Ya know Jimmy, I was like you as a kid. I think…"he trailed off, eyes beginning to close. "I-I think, I tink I'd be like you, if I wasn't so damn crazy." He finished quietly, drifting off into dreamland at last._

Jimmy was the only one at NCIS to ever hear John express his feelings, play the guitar or sing. Sometimes while they were together in autopsy, one of them would begin humming a bit of Bon Jovi's Dead or Alive, and immediately the other would finish the part they'd started up. No matter how much they tried and tried to figure it out, none of the other team members would ever become privy to the reason this song meant so much to the two men. Not until after…**that** day.


	7. Escape

A/N: Nothing claimed, nothing owned. Getting a little bit stuck on the final showdown between McGee and the brown-eyed man. Thinking I might go with the multiple endings option. Anywho, hopefully this part'll make a nice sucker punch, and a surprise for the people who didn't check their foreshadowing forecast.

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7. After Kate's death, McGee needed some way of escaping reality. He felt as if he were going to suffocate, get crushed if he let it go on as it was too much longer. He'd tried writing some music earlier in life to relieve the tension. It didn't work; the only song he'd ever written one that was partially composed of things his mother had told him when he was sad or upset. He never wanted to go back there, the memories too strong an association. So one night he sat down at an old typewriter he'd been given by his guardian Jack some years ago in an attempt to get him to exorcise the terribly depressive mood and feelings he seemed to have bubbling and roiling below the surface at any given moment. He didn't want to write truth though. Truth was innocence lost in the blood of kin. Truth was the choice of a cowardly fool, a desperate run to abandon ship like a panicked rat. Truth was cycles of nightmares where maggots burst through warm flesh as they held him in their arms, where infinite falls always led down a never-ending rabbit hole of accusing stares, where the cries of ones once living and loved echoed and reverberated everywhere like the cries of the damned through the mouth of hell. He couldn't handle the truth.

So he began writing the story of Provisional Agent John McGregor. He wrote of this newest agent's interactions within an alternative version of NCIS. He wrote of Senior Agent Tommy Datone, the handsome, debonair wiseacre who only looked out for the newest member of the team and teased because he cared. He wrote of Liaison Officer Lisa Mahid, the deadly and beautiful team member who hid her feelings for everyone beneath a tough exterior while exchanging teasing and slightly hinting banter with the senior agent who she simultaneously enjoyed and was endlessly frustrated by. He wrote of brilliant but naïve Amy Saito, whose sunny disposition contrasted so sharply with her dark clothing and fascinations but who could always be relied upon to inject a sense of energy into the others. He wrote of the almost grandfatherly Dr. Daniel Boyne (Danny Boy to his friends and mother dearest), whose stories, advice and assessments were welcomed with equal respect by the other team members. He wrote of Patricia Cain, the long suffering but ultimately practical director of the agency whose job it was to keep her wayward agents operating on the right side of the law. He wrote of Timmy Hanson, the chronically disrespected assistant to Doctor Boyne whose unlucky streak provided some much needed comedic relief when things started getting too heavy within the story. And finally, he wrote of Special Agent Lucas James Tibbs, the mortar that bound the entire team together, the one who could bring together such disparate interests and personalities and manage to make them into a machine that actually worked.

He wrote and finished the entire first book over a single weekend, not stopping for anything but his body's physical requirements involving waste elimination. By the end of it, he felt such satisfaction that he decided to follow his whim still further, and sent the thing out to be published. Not surprisingly, he was turned down by virtually every single major publisher he sent it to. He wasn't expecting much from those anyway. So he sent it to a little known publisher that was known as one that enjoyed publishing thrillers and mysteries, and to his surprise, they'd accepted. Not much advertising had been done for the book, the company having left it up to the store owners how much they wanted to advertise the story of Deep Six. It was more of an underground story than anything else, one that people enjoyed for the same reason he did: to escape. To let themselves be absorbed into a world that was simple, that had a definitive structure, that despite hardships and problems always had a resolution.

It was a nice supplement to his income, and he finally felt some relief at getting somewhere with his own feelings. He managed to publish another two books when things started getting hard for him and reality was too much to cope with. But then of course, they had to find out. They alternately teased him and accused him of writing thinly veiled stories about them without telling them or asking their permission. He couldn't very well tell them the truth, that it was an exercise in keeping the encroachment of insanity away from his mind by locking it away on the written page. That he did it to try and create somewhere where he could escape and be free to wonder and dream. That it was a way to keep the fading memories of his slaughtered family alive, to stop their spirits from leaving him alone in this world.

So he merely denied it had any relation to them, that he wasn't writing about them, another shade of the truth, a lie that made his limbs start to drag when he got tired. Soon after however, the audio books were in production. As he interviewed potential voices for the work, the directors noted how specifically he had the characters' voices mapped out, how he could manage to near flawlessly pull them off, be they Tommy, Lisa or even Tibbs. After the first week of interviews, the voice director quietly approached him with the idea of maybe doing the voices himself. John near instinctively turned it down. His mimicry was one of the sources of his greatest pride until he'd rediscovered the brown-eyed man's connection to his family. Back in Norfolk, as he'd looked through as many different archives as he could find, he'd gone through the FBI Database. To his immense surprise he'd come across his father in the system, listed as a senior agent. And then, when he'd investigated the list of partners, he'd found John Michael Donovan. The brown-eyed man, his profile photo showing someone whose face had seen much laughter, whose eyes were practically sparkling with mirth.

_He'd ducked into the bathroom and thrown-up as he finally remembered the day he'd asked his parents about why his Uncle JD had his name. His parents had laughed because it was a silly childish question, one they wouldn't have expected from their youngest before explaining that, as John's namesake, the one he was named for, he had been the first consideration for the role of godfather, taking over for them should anything ever happen in the unforeseeable future. Tim had left early that day, needing to go home and find a way to deal with the knowledge that he was named for his family's murderer, the man who had first gotten him interested in the fine art of mimicry. His uncle had praised him for having a knack for it, his slightly amused tone reflecting the depth of his fondness for his nephew, the one who'd promised to be as much like his Uncle as he could. His Uncle wasn't his father by any stretch of the imagination, but he and his opinion certainly meant quite a bit to the impressionable boy, eager as he was to stand out from his brother in any way he could. He'd taken to following Tommy around, imitating him at home so that he could get back at him when his older brother had started being annoying to him. He knew as only a sibling can that it drove Tommy absolutely nuts when he did it, the fact that he couldn't do anything about it rubbing salt in the sore whenever the normally tougher boy tried to get their parents to stop._

He'd not wanted to do it, but they'd convinced him to at least try it out. When he stepped into that booth and started reading the story he'd impressed on the pages before him though, he started to lose himself in it. He could think of voices on the fly, the sheer emotion and feeling he tried to pour onto the pages but somehow couldn't translate coming through in every sheaf of script, every line of description, every spoken word. Before he realized the time, he'd already finished the entirety of chapters 24 and 25. When he'd finished, there had been smiles and light smatterings of applause from some of the more incredulous technical assistants in the AV recording studio. He negotiated only a short while that day, only requesting the same he did of his books; that he not have his picture included and that he be allowed to go under a pseudonym. They'd agreed, asking what he wished to go by. So he choose a more meaningful name than an obvious anagram, and David Warren made his debut.

Surprisingly, once word got around about the unknown who'd seemingly done such a spirited job with the source material, the audio book copies of the story sold even better than the printed versions. It was in celebration of this that Tim would go out to a secluded, relatively sparse bar to celebrate by himself. He'd decided (in a slightly drunken haze) that it would be a good idea to blow off some of those good feelings. He'd asked, and been given an acoustic guitar by one of the bands set to perform that night. With nothing but the guitar and his own voice, he'd breezed through the Bon Jovi classic **Dead or Alive**. When he was done, he'd given it back, paid the bartender his due, plus a bit extra for letting him perform, and walked out. He didn't realize that someone had followed him out. It was the discussion that night, and subsequent half-remembered soul searching between opposing yet kindred spirits that would mark the start of his friendship with Jimmy Palmer.

This didn't lead to significant changes in routine. It didn't revitalize his life. It didn't change everything. But it did do one thing he would always be grateful for. It would give him, for brief periods of time, a chance to place the weights of his self-imposed isolation and loneliness on the ground. A chance to for once, be honest with someone who wasn't merely within his own head. It was a liberating feeling indeed.

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A/N: I figured there needed to be at least a few bright spots in John/Tim's existence. Figured if I could get the Palmer thing wrapped up, it would explain what Palmer would tell everyone after the day in question. If you want to hear what Tim/John sounded like, search YouTube for Bon Jovi Dead or Alive. Change the search option from relevancy to rating. Should be the first thing that comes up. You'll know it by the title. Hope everyone enjoyed this far overdue little update, and until next time…


	8. Shade

A/N: Been far too long everyone. Kept getting stuck on this, however, don't fear! This thing will not die, even if it takes an obscene amount of time to get it right and get it out. Thanks to everyone for your patronage and your patience. And once more, reviews are appreciated but not required. Enjoy.

8. Tim McGee has one quality that makes him such a unique investigator whether he goes to work at NCIS, becomes a part of the FBI, or does private work all on his own. And conversely, it is John alone who knows what a massive weak spot it is for himself. He discovered it when he once took an entire weekend trying to qualify where he stood within the team in relation to the others. He didn't manage to do so, his indecisiveness about where reality began and his own perceptions/delusions ended encouraging him to not pursue this potential train of thought. But in doing so, he'd managed to qualify how each of them operated as agents and as part of the whole. Ziva, thanks to her Mossad training and natural no-nonsense attitude, was the brawn of the group no matter what Tony said to the contrary. If they needed her for interrogation, he wasn't sure they could restrain her once she really got into it. After all, one does not simply walk away from death, no matter how much they may wish and want to; it becomes a part of them for better and for worse even after brief exposure, let alone the saturation levels she had surely experienced in her relatively short lifetime and career.

If Ziva was their unstoppable force, than he knew it comparatively made Gibbs their immovable object. Barely raising his voice, always with that underlying authority (rightly or mistakenly) of a man who could defy God himself and not only get away with it, but have God admit that he was right after all. Tim sometimes wondered to himself which of the two would break the other first if they had to interrogate each other. (His personal bet was on Ziva, unless Gibbs didn't interrogate as an impartial agent, but as her boss and pseudo-father figure he knew she somewhat regarded him as.) He'd yet to actually see Gibbs raise his voice to true, non-theatrical anger levels when interrogating suspects, even ones that were pushing all the wrong buttons within the iron haired agent. Gibbs essentially was the team's foundation: without him, they would gradually but inevitably drift apart until they weren't a team anymore.

Tony made his way in the world and the agency by being the underestimated one, letting people think of him as the underdog. He could annoy, trick or trap their suspects into confessing what exactly they did know just to get him to shut up or go away. It wasn't the most effective technique in comparison with their two hard-hitters, but it worked just fine in a clutch. Plus, Tony was the team cheerleader in a way. One could almost always look over at Tony, whether they were in the office catching up on case paperwork or out in the field during a firefight and see a wry expression with a dry remark at the tip of his tongue; a reassurance in its own way, much like Gibb's quiet confidence, that everything could turn out all right. (Of course, other times it forced John to conclude that Tony wasn't being cool under pressure, but was in reality that much of a complete idiot. Hey, you take what you can get with this group.)

Tim however…his methods were…different from his colleagues, to say the least. The few times they had bothered to let him to interrogate a suspect, it wasn't the probable guilty parties, but the ones that they weren't sure about one way or another. For Tim's talent, they roughly figured, had something to do with that baby face of his. Something about looking so clean and honest and having so thoroughly researched the lives of those he was about to talk to made people who might have information open up to him. And truthfully, Tim preferred it that way. Because while the others thought it was his boyish aura that people came to trust, it was something on a different scale. Tim was what a person might call an acute empathetic. If he observed someone's interactions with the world, learned part or even their whole history, or just listened to them speak for an extended period of time, he could discern with instinctive and almost uncanny accuracy what made them tick. He knew from the moment he really started listening to Anthony DiNozzo speak exactly what to say about his lonely childhood and abandoned home life to goad and provoke the senior agent into what could either be a white-hot rage or crushing sadness. He could see from the way Gibbs looked at the other two agents under his command, how he spoke to them both in the office and in the field, that the most surefire way to get under the older man's skin would be to willfully hurt either your own family or his. The tightness around Caitlyn Todd's eyes that only came from years of suspicious staring, the way she was always slightly protective of the food she brought in with her, the way she could get so easily sucked into one-upmanship counts and various pissing contests with DiNozzo no matter how juvenile it was told him how much growing up with a large family of mostly brothers had affected her. Ziva had been the hardest to figure until he saw her interact with any children they happened to see as a part of the cases. For some reason known exclusively to herself, involving a child in any way with what you were doing was the only unfailing hot button the otherwise stony former assassin appeared to have.

Part of the reason Tim didn't interview very many suspects was because he, like Director Vance, appreciated having as much information at hand as he could. He'd learned from painful experience that if he didn't have everything in order, he could severely misread the situation and end up making entirely wrong judgment calls and assumptions about motivations even if he was reading the signs correctly. But when he had observation and knowledge on his side, well. Then he was a force to be reckoned with. Because while the others were good, all of their techniques were from the viewpoint of an oppositional stand, all of them working best when they assumed that they were this person's enemy and needed to stop them. Tim's on the other hand, were subtle and were manipulative in a way that sometimes made the suspects truly believe (on a subconscious level of course) that he and he alone understood them, could appreciate what they were trying to do. It was being a witness to this process when he still worked in Norfolk that originally led Tobias Fornell to try and recruit Tim McGee for the FBI, and why he still hadn't given up even after numerous emphatic warnings from Gibbs.

But while Tim would never admit it out loud, he really and truly wished he were more like the others. They had terrible memories certainly, memories of death or betrayal they felt guilty for, but he very much doubted that in all their nightmares, that they ever took the place of their victims: managed to experience the surrealism of watching and feeling you kill yourself. Tim had killed them all, but he also died as they died. He had been his father; shot in the gut, powerless to do anything but watch as his best friend kill the rest of his family. He had been his mother; trying so hard to protect the one who deserved this least of all, and the bitter acidic taste that came from failing even to do that. He had been his first friend; betrayed and left for dead by the boy she had considered family to her. He had been the recovering drug addict; the one who had an inhuman attacker take control of his hand and force him to kill two of the only people he had ever been friendly with before it turned his hand against the side of his head and blew his own brains out. He had been Sergei Volokov's lieutenant, pushed off a lighthouse by two of the few people who worked with the boss that hadn't seemed all that dangerous. He had been an undercover cop; unable to even understand why this person on his side was killing him. But now, now there was someone else who took their place in the dark shadows of midnight.

_She had said her name was Maya. She was almost a nine year old clone of her mother. Tim had first seen her at the bus stop a few blocks from his home, huddled on top of a duffel bag that was nearly bigger than she was. When he stopped, she looked at him, and immediately called out in a guarded tone: "Are you my mom's friend?" Tim had gotten out of the car and moved closer in as non-threatening a fashion as he could, sure his eyes were deceiving him. He squatted down next to this girl, looking straight into her dark brown eyes. They had stared at each other for what seemed an eternity before he asked for her mother's name. Grace Kobaiyashi was her answer. Tim nodded briefly. "Then yes. I'm Tim McGee." She had nodded back, getting off the bench, dragging her duffel bag with her as she headed toward his car. He'd moved with her, unlocking the door for her to get in with her bag. There was a silence in the car as they each tiredly contemplated what this meant now. "Why'd she ask you to find me?" he finally said, as they pulled into the space outside his apartment building. Without looking at him, she started to get out. "She's dead." Was the curt response. Tim briefly closed his eyes as he too exited the vehicle. Just what he needed. As he'd soon learn, she was out, not to reunite with someone her mother knew, but to find the one her mother said could help most in finding the other half of her set. Her twin brother Akira had been taken from herself and their mother when they were five, his stoic and deadened expression as he was led away from them one of the few memories she possessed of her wayward sibling._

She sometimes stayed with him, but mostly stayed with Marcus Rayner next door. She quietly accepted his explanation of her needing to stay somewhere close-by, but also needing to be hidden in case anyone attempted to discover and discourage anyone making inquiries into her twin's location. She was a crafty kid, unreadable, much like he himself had been after his disastrous seventh year of life. As she opened up to him more, he heard stories of how she and her mother had been treated, how she'd only escaped the same fate as her mother because her mother deliberately attacked the men who had come for them. As she and he grew closer, she confided some of her fears and hopes of her brother. And as she did, a suspicion wormed itself into his mind. A terrible one that she was sent to him for more than convenience and canniness on the part of her mother. Grace may have never been a romantic at heart, but still…there was always the possibility right? Despite himself he grew to love her as he might've his own child. It was this love that led to him to make his decision to leave the question of who her father was where it belonged: in the dark. Why? He knew himself. He knew human nature. And he trusted neither of them. He was sure that if he tested her and found that she wasn't his blood, he would grow distant, that he would rationalize his way out of the caring feelings he'd come to possess for herself and her twin that he'd never even seen. But if she was, she could be the second person with the potential power to derail his self-appointed vendetta. And he wasn't going to get her hopes up, only to destroy himself in the process when she could be so much happier being looked after by soft-spoken, patient Marcus. Yes, John had a talent that made him a great investigator. And he hated it.


	9. Aspect

A/N: Don't own NCIS, the characters, the places, the things or the anything else to do with the official franchise. I do however have this to my name. Whatever that all means.

9. Human beings are not singularities. They are a culmination of all that has come before them and all that they believe may come after them. They are a single organism capable of nearly infinitely different mental permutations and countless emotional variations. The members of the NCIS team headed by Leroy Jethro Gibbs are no exception to this truth. Which is why John was so surprised when he had the epiphany that the entire team thought Tim McGee, Mr. Computer Geek, was the only aspect of who he was. Thanks to his traumatic childhood experience and determined (most, including John himself, would say to the point of insanity) perseverance to continue onward no matter where the path to knowing and vengeance took him, he'd managed to develop by last count four distinct but useful personalities he could assume and act on at a moment's notice.

The Alpha was Timothy McGee. The personality that was literally a second skin to him now. Tim was technically fully developed in some ways, but almost a blank slate in others. He'd become something like the friendly support John never knew he needed as time went on, growing more and more as an entirely separate entity from who he had been originally. As John had admitted mentally if not aloud, Tim was similar to both himself and James Palmer in a lot of ways, not the least of which was the general book smarts but initial naiveté in worldly matters he possessed. He was polite and respectful but socially uncoordinated when it came to casual interaction (though getting better with that aspect all the time, having no other option with teammates such as Anthony DiNozzo and Ziva David). He wasn't naturally suspicious of people and had no inclination to be so. Not like his counterparts. Not like the Guard Dog.

That was the facet who possessed the name of Cyrus Volokov. He was the second oldest personality and the first that had developed for an aspect of his pursuit that Tim couldn't achieve. It had come about, in part, from his strange relationship with Adelpha. He'd decided to learn Russian on his own time in an effort to better understand what she was muttering under her breath when she was upset or shouted at something that existed within her dreams. From there, he'd managed to become cordial with her contact from the Volokov family, managing to convince the man that he was in fact the orphan apprentice of a petty crook who had learned from his mentor's mistakes, preferring to use brain rather than brawn when dealing with potential problems. He very deliberately didn't tell the real reason, that when he had realized what their power and influence could do for his search, he had done everything in his (somewhat limited) power to gain their trust and respect.

He'd started small. Information exchange here, interception of informants there. Soon he graduated to the next tier. Minor protection detail/escort, active source for Adelpha if she needed additional information on her target. The final level of trust was achieved when he was able to set in motion the events that would manage to take down one of the Nitrolari's right hand men from behind the guise of an official FBI investigation, paving the way for the Volokov family to take 'temporary' control of their city. By the time their rivals had recovered, it was already far too late. For his services to them, Cyrus was inducted as an official Half-Blooded Volokov; a "Bastard Wolf" of the family so to speak. He was to be one of those precious few who would be looked after by the higher levels of the organization, and should he marry into the family itself; his children would be considered full blooded Volokov no matter their name even if he himself would only ever be considered a half-breed at most.

However, due to his status, he was also the one they would approach for the nastier jobs, to deal with the family's problems when the Volokovs themselves couldn't afford to be seen as involved. He was in essence their preferred fall guy, one who could make the connections that were needed to get things done, but also someone who had proven he wouldn't betray their confidences if it came down to the wire for either side. After numerous dealings with the less than savory elements of the underground and the world as a whole, Cyrus developed into a cold, calculation-oriented, ever watchful individual. A consummate poker player who could maintain a façade of stone even when they were but a twitch away from open warfare with another family.

Even so, behind that stoic façade lay a ruthless streak and willingness to do whatever was deemed necessary that had led to him committing his first premeditated murder at the age of 23. And in what was either a deliberate choice by the higher-ups or the world's sense of cosmic sadism at play again, his target was the very man who had introduced him to the world of the Volokov, Dmitri Valentina. Dmitri had been helpful to Cyrus, had given him some friendly advice on how best to serve the clan. If he hadn't been so entrenched in the criminal world, he could've been someone Country Boy would've enjoyed knowing.

When involvement with Adelpha's blood kin hadn't yielded the information he needed about the brown-eyed man quickly enough, John had created another persona to work in a different direction. The identity he took as Andrew St. Martin (or Country Boy as he was sometimes called by the other personas) was for all practical purposes on the opposite end of the emotional demonstration spectrum than Cyrus. 'Andy,' as he preferred to be called by the fairer sex, had grown up in Louisiana, the son of a single mother who'd done her level best to provide both himself and his two half-sisters with the best life she could. His early years only amounted to a smarter than average party attendee, a very successful ladies man who'd observed via his two unwitting sources on female relations and brainscapes what was looked for and what was to be avoided. However, his low pitched Cajun accent and near constant playful smile hid an intelligence that was the single defining trait all of John's various facets shared.

When he'd gotten old enough, Andrew had discovered the fascinating world of online trickery and sleight of hand. Through these faceless interactions with the great electronic unknown, he had discovered a great yen for using this new system to uncover the records and stories that people would rather remained buried. "Electronic Investigation, Retrieval and Security" were the new specialties of the new company Hardwire Investigations.

The business was slow going at first, now many preferred to use them over the much more widely available police forces or private investigators. But once technology became more and more widespread, leading to more and more uses, applications and ways of recording themselves in cyberspace, more people began to see the value in the services his company offered. Though outgoing and friendly, Andrew hardly ever interacted with his employees outside of Skype or the occasional face to face with an operative who was in need of guidance. He'd grown and expanded with the tech boom, now proficient and widely consulted enough that the amount of business warranted setting up a small office right there in DC. It was a risk both to Cyrus and to Tim, but one John felt was worth taking.

Even if his business was slowly growing, his record searching and stringent background checking on potential clients continued to be a problem for expansion, but wasn't too worrying since John had a very specific purpose in mind for the company that expansion would only hinder. They weren't really large enough to be on anyone important's radar and he would prefer to keep it that way. The personalities, despite all belonging to the same person, usually respected the boundaries and the lines they were not meant to cross. The things they could and couldn't do. They had their own ideas, their own motivations and methods, but they did not attempt to usurp control, did not attempt to take over. Well, that wasn't strictly true. The one they all hated did. But then again, the vitriolic feelings between the Irishman and the other personalities were very much mutual.

If the other personalities were to be categorized in terms of functionalities: as programs and systems that kept the whole structure working, than one could most readily describe the Irishman as a release valve of sorts. He was the youngest, but also the most wildly unpredictable personality whose single consistency was his lilting Celtic brogue. Maybe it was because he was more of a general outlet instead of a fully formed idea that he had no concrete history, no distinctive identity of his own, seeming to change who and what he was based on whatever whimsical feeling or impulse occurred to him at the moment. He was a chronic liar, unable or unwilling to show even an iota of empathy with any other living creature. The strongest characteristic difference between him and the others however wasn't his complete inability to be honest for more than half a minute at a time, nor was it even his very deliberate attempts to fight the other personas and on more than one occasion John himself.

No, the reason the others so hated the Irishman was a simple one. He was far and away the most sadistically violent bastard any of the others had ever known. (He is the primary reason the others don't mind Tim using the hand lotions and the scented shampoos. Not even the ever blank slate Cyrus really appreciates smelling the coppery tang of phantom blood on their hands and in their hair, not when that particular incident is already burned into their collective consciousness as it is.) If it hadn't gone against the very core of their belief in life's intrinsic value and killed them as well, Andy and Tim both would've had zero hesitation putting him down like a rabid dog. Cyrus was less vehemently opposed to the Irishman's very existence than John, Tim and Andy were, but that was more due to the disproportionate levels of violence the Irishman would reach for no other reason than because he felt like it than any moral qualms or ethical concerns. If there was one thing Cyrus prided himself on after all, it was his sense of practicality.

They are all a part of him. They are all him. They are all not him. They are all their own person. At least, he likes to think so. He doesn't really want to be like Cyrus or the Irishman. He's not even really sure he wants to be Tim or Andy. But at this point, they're all he has. He has split himself so much between the Alpha and the others that if he tried to be John right at this moment, he has a sick sense of certainty he wouldn't know what John is. Maybe they're all figments of a whole, maybe they can only stand alone. Either way, he certainly isn't so one dimensional as DiNozzo and the others like to think...Is he?

A/N: Yet another part of a sporadically updated story about a favorite character. Hope those of you who read enjoyed it!


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